


Moondust

by AdikaOfMandalore



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Tangled (2010), The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cliche, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Din is young and reckless, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Torture, Inspired by Tangled (2010), Multi, Mutual Pining, Not really a good man, Other, Pascal is a droid, Pining, Reader has magic powers, Set around twenty years before the canon, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Soulmates, Tangled (2010) References, Tangled!AU, Tropes, the mandalorian - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:42:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26560852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdikaOfMandalore/pseuds/AdikaOfMandalore
Summary: «I'll come with you, I'll do everything you ask me to, I promise. But, please, please help me find Luminarie.»He doesn't utter a single sound for a long time, his hidden gaze burning in yours. Then he sags his armoured shoulders, a spent sigh leaving the sharp lip of the blood red helmet.«Fine.»«Wait- really?»(This story is a crossover between The Mandalorian and Tangled, set years and years prior to the events of the Disney + show)
Relationships: Din Djarin & Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	1. The Tower

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: fem!reader, canon typical violence, mentions of non-descriptive under age sex, blood, war and death, child abuse, torture, angst, fluff, pining

FIVE STANDARD DAYS AGO

«The tower – Ranzar Malk said, using one stubby finger to spin the blue hologram one direction and then the other, showcasing to his three working partners the tall building in all its entirety. – A unit of contracted soldiers guarding it, alarms all around the perimeter, but my informant affirms that only two are functioning, here and there. One way in, one way out. And that’s the tricky part. But, lucky for us, _the_ _way_ won’t be a problem to you, ay Mando?»

The young man simply scoffed and crossed his arms on the chest cuirass as red as blood, hidden dark gaze trained to the flickering column alight at the centre of the table. He didn’t deign the only other human in the gang of an answer and merely rolled his eyes when his friend swatted his back with a loud laugh.

«So what’s the plan?» he asked instead, gruffy voice almost metallic through the vocoder of the helmet the colour of rust.

«The commission was specific: no harm done to the target, kill the others.» Qin, a bulky and handsome Twi'lek with an ugly look in his amethyst eyes, intervened, zooming the hologram into what ought to be the guards post, currently just an empty cubicle of blueish light.

A squeal of delight from Xi'an, his beautiful, but equally sick-minded, teenage sister sent a gelid shiver down the spines of the other two mercenaries.

«Easy job, then.» Was the deadpan comment of the young Mandalorian, side-glancing the girl next to him. He already missed her slick warmth, despite having spent the night nested between her legs, but that’s not to say he didn’t find her behaviour psychotic and the malicious glint in her pupils repulsive. He supposed she was exactly what he deserved.

«It is – Ran confirmed, bringing him back to reality, before sharing a smile with the male Twi at his side. – And you haven’t heard the best part, yet.»

Mando merely tilted his head, patience wearing thin. He pressed his lips together and waited for the two to stop playing around and just go to the point.

«They pay all in beskar» snickered the leader of the group, studying up closely for whatever response from his brother in arms and best warrior.

And, oh, there was quite the reaction indeed! “Delightful”, Malk thought, drinking avidly the emotional slip of his usually stoic and calculating friend.

Mando visibly stiffened at his words, fists clenching against his cloth-covered forearms. No words spoken, not a sound left the darkened T-visor, but it was still quite clear that that information struck a nerve and that’s exactly what the other three were hoping for. So there was a living being under there, after all.

Xi'an wasted no time in pressing her willowy body against the shocked man’s, flashing her pointy teeth in a grotesque smile and drumming her knuckles on the right cheek of the helmet, her humid breath ghosting over its visor.

«Oh, Mando! Aren’t you happy to hear that? Perhaps now you can afford yourself a new head bucket!»

«Tut tut, Xi. Let him breathe – Qin smirked. – He’s going to be the star of this job, the lucky bastard. Gotta be in perfect shape.»

«The plan?» Mando curtly reminded them, since Ran had yet to explain who was supposed to do what and he was getting fed up by their waste of time.

«Come, now, friend. Are you really in such a hurry to kill?»

«Bad news, Mando, you won’t be doing any of it» the girl whispered, still completely pressed against his cuirass. Maker, she was warm.

«What do you mean?» the young warrior managed to grit out, trying with all his might to tune out the feeling of her curves molding on the sharp edges of his towering figure.

Why was he not going to take care of the guards? He was their sharpshooter. They took him in in the gang _because_ of his combat skills and the armour. And now they didn’t want him to put them to good use?

«Qin wasn’t joking, before. You are going to have quite the role, this time. And here’s what you’ll have to do…»

—

«We have to be quick, Mando – the female Twi whispered conspiratorially, starting to take off her tank top before the door of her room completely closed shut. – Gotta be quick, before the others start wondering where we went to and come looking for us.»

«And since when do you mind putting your body in display?» the young man jeered, staring at her gorgeous forms from behind the dark lens of his helmet. Almost in a haze, he pressed his gloved palm against one of her fleshy lekku, before pinching its curved end, drawing a silent whimper from her plump lips. He sighed at the sound, pressing harshly his hips to hers.

«Since I am fucked by a Mandalorian. – Was her blatant observation, grinding teasingly against him. – You and your stupid rules about people looking your way. What do you look like, Mando? When will I see your face?»

«Shut your mouth» he warned coldly, pushing rather roughly her now bare back against the metallic wall of the dorm. The Twi'lek’s cot wasn’t too far, but they rarely used it. Too personal and intimate, something their relationship was anything but.

«Make me.» Xi'an flashed a hideous smirk, starting to expertly work on the buckles of his belt.

_Lights out._

* * *

PRESENT DAY

«Oh, shush, Pascal! Yes, I know it’s bigger than the other, but would you rather not move at all? We were lucky they went through the trouble of buying us a spare part. Yes, I know! Wrong model, I know.» You sigh in exasperation and amusement while your little – and only – friend keeps on complaining for his new, disproportionate, wheel.

«But this is not forever, I promise. And, when we are finally out of there, I’ll buy you all the latest parts you want, okay? – you try to sooth him, caressing his round, bland head and wondering how it’d feel like to touch another living being after all this time. You miss the warmth of a hug and the smell of skin. It’s been so long since you’ve even seen another real, concrete person. – I dreamt him for two nights straight. It must mean something, don’t you think?» you then explain, finishing fixing what little you could fix. You are covered head to toe in sweat and oil and Pascal keeps bleeping furiously about how tight-fisted your captors are, buying him only second hand parts, but you can’t find yourself to be upset by any of it. You are too tired for it.

You sit on the carpeted floor with a huff and glance towards the window at your right. Tall and narrow, with a thick transparisteel panel cutting out the rest of the world, its reflective surface works as a mirror. Still, you’ve been stuck in there long enough to know at what exact angle you must bow your head when looking at it, so you kind of manage to make out the sky outside.

«Mh. It’s getting dark» you ponder, starting to sort out the mess you and Pascal made during reparations. They took you all afternoon. Not that you had much else to do, anyway.

_Time for dinner!_ Your fierce child care droid beeps, bumping impatiently against your stretched arms with his spherical, green-ish body.

«Oh, you’re right! C'mon, grumpy, let’s see what tasteless bars we’re going to have, tonight.»

After dinner and fresh of a quick shower, you decide you aren’t sleepy enough to try and go to bed just yet, so you opt for fishing out your beloved charcoals set – or what is left of it, old and used as it is – and draw for a while. There’s this portrait you’ve been meaning to finish for a couple days, now, so you suppose this is the perfect chance to do so.

Hair still damp and gathered up in a _long_ braid, you sit cross-legged on the carpet, your favourite spot in the whole tower, since it’s the only soft and cosy one, apart from the spartan cot you sleep in, and open the sketchbook on your knees. You take your time to observe your unfinished work.

It’s _him_ , no doubt it’s him, but… something is missing; you are still not quite able to catch the sharp light of his pupils nor the exasperated frown his mouth is constantly set to.

With a hum, you press the tip of the charcoal pencil just above his forehead and start tracing the soft waves of his dark hair. It curls at the nape of his neck in the loveliest of ways and you sometimes find yourself daydreaming about running your fingers through those silky strands.

«What do you think?» you ask Pascal, eyes still trained on the drawing, when he comes rolling towards you with a judging tilt of his little round head.

«His nose is _supposed_ to be this crooked, P – you assure, sighing loudly at his next objection. – Shush, I think it’s cute.»

«And I am not dreamy! Din will come soon. – You delicately trace the scrunched up lines of the portrait’s brows, staining your pads in black in doing so, and let a hopeful smile blossom on your lips. – I know he will.»


	2. The Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: fem!reader, canon typical violence, mentions of non-descriptive under age sex, blood, war and death, child abuse, torture, angst, fluff, pining.  
> No Din in this chapter, I'm afraid. Just a little glimpse into the reader's past.

Screams. Tears. Panic. And, at the center of it all, a little girl not older than seven.

She was sobbing silently, covering her ears and hitting her head, hitting her head and covering her ears and so on. But, no matter how much she hurt herself or tried to cut out the deafening noise of terrified people running away, she couldn't erase what she just saw; what she just did.

The other noble girls were quickly led away from the class, but no one – not even the armed guards – dared approach the crying child covered in blood.

* * *

«How many witnesses?»

Save for the old man kneeling and the frigid woman sitting on the throne, the room was completely deserted and the question echoed with the same intensity of a thunder against the mosaic walls and the marmoreal pillars surrounding the court. Jamal Nevhoo, first counsellor of the royal family, bowed his piggy face even lower and cleared his throat.

«The five girls and... the governess, your grace» he eventually answered, waiting for a nod of her majesty the queen of the Northern Sphere of Ithal to stand back up. But it never came and so he knelt still.

«Anyone else? Have the parents already been informed?» The terrific woman sounded almost bored, untbothered by what her young daughter did just a few hours prior during a sewing lesson.

«Just the ones hosted at court, your grace.» The floor was hard and cold, but there was no trace of the public execution that took place in that same spot the day before; it shined like a mirror, reflecting back the glossy, nervous gaze of the man staring down at it.

«So the Jospor and the Orabrin, good. They can easily be bribed to silence. Good – she repeated, tapping her long, manicured nails against the silver armrests of the throne. An insistent sound that the advisor found unnerving, but he kept quiet and gulped down the uneasiness. – See the other girls won't utter a single word about the unfortunate event, Jamal. What happened in that room, from now on, has to stay in that room. If anything should slip out, I will consider you direct responsible for it and have your head exposed atop the palace gates.» The monarch's tone was calm, melodic; sickeningly gentle. The man's blood turned to ice.

«Of course, your grace – counsellor Nevhoo hesitated, but his good-natured soul couldn't suppress the next inquiry. – Your grace–?»

«What now, Jamal.»

«The governess. People will ask questions about her... erm... _appearance_.»

«And what about it? She's but a sick woman that lost her mind and disfigured herself in front of a group of young, impressionable noble girls. She's lucky I won't send her to the gallows for such a grim spectacle. _Is_ _that_ _all?_ »

«Yes, your grace.»

«Dismissed.» With a bored waving of her jewelled hand, the queen got rid of his annoying presence.

* * *

The bath rooms were warm and foggy, and sweetly smelled of wild flowers, balms and talcum powder. Someone was sobbing, while a gentle voice tried to sooth them.

The queen grimaced, for she knew right away who was still whining even after three hours from the accident. “Boneless, just like her father, peace be to his soul.”

«Your grace.» The Twi'lek intent in washing the weeping princess immediately bowed, dropping the sponge and their gaze to the marble floor.

«Leave us. I'll take it from here.»

«Yes, your grace.» The scared servant all but run from the rooms, not even sparing a last glance to the child still sitting in the hot water of the basin. The queen coldly studied her a moment, before grabbing one of the cushioned stools scattered next to the slim columns of the room and sitting down next to the girl soaked in soap.

«Mama, I'm sorry. I didn't want to–» A slap and a whimper.

«Clean your face, daughter. Crying is not appropriate behaviour of a princess» the woman seethed.

«Is lady Senes okay?» the kid asked with a small voice, sniffing, but using the scented water of the bath to remove all traces of snot and tears from her reddened face. She tried to ignore the stinging pulsing of one of her cheeks, but she could still feel the single droplet of blood escaping the cut from where her mother's ring smashed against her fragile skin, opening it.

«She is none of your concern. I already took care of it.»

«I didn't want to hurt her» the kid repeated in a swift breath, puffy eyes trained to the rosy water submerging her trembling limbs. It was her second bath, but she could still see the dried blood coating her skin. It was all in her head, of course, but she kept seeing it.

«And yet you did. For generations, the women of our family have had powers, but you are still so young and it usually happens in conjunction with the first blood. I should have been more careful, look for signs you held it in yourself like myself and the women before us. But no sense thinking too much about it, now. We can't change what happened.»

The little girl had no idea what her mother was talking about and, despite having a feeling it was important, one single thought was keeping her mind worried.

«What if– what if I do it again?»

«You will. And you must learn how to control it.»

«What if–»

«You are stubborn, that's the only good thing you inherited from that fool of your father, peace to his soul. You will learn.»

«Can you sleep with me, mama?» She already knew the answer, but, despite the gelid nature of her mother, she needed to feel her embrace altogether. She doubted she could fall asleep on her own; not after all the horror she witnessed and caused...

«One day, you are to be queen – the older woman tersely reminded the child, caressing lightly her hurt cheek, but pressing the pad of her thumb on the cut. This time, the little girl repressed the pain and her mother smiled, satisfied with the quick progress. – A queen needn't hold onto something to fall asleep.»

«Just this once? Please?»

«Very well, daughter. Given the circumstances, I will see for someone to deliver your child droid to your rooms. But that will be the last time.»

«Yes, mama.»

«And no more of this. Your power awakened and we'll consider it your stepping into womanhood. From now on, you will address me as “your grace” and you will have to expect people to do the same with you. Is that clear?»

«Yes... your grace.»


	3. The Girl In The Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: fem!reader, canon typical violence, mentions of non-descriptive under age sex, blood, war and death, child abuse, torture, angst, fluff, pining.

It's the last memory you have of your mother that wakes you up.

Sitting up with a jolt, heart throbbing in your throat and a gelid sweat coating entirely your body, you hastily look around the circular room, but there is no black, lungs-burning smoke nor lifeless figures in cobalt laying scattered on the floor, only the carpets and the chess pieces you forgot to regroup the other night. And your little, grumpy droid, looking at you from the foot of your narrow cot with what you presume might be concern for your well-being. Despite you no longer being a child, he is, in fact, wired to take care of you.

«I'm fine, P. Just a bad dream» you promise, still out of breath, pressing a hand to your chest to try and stop your heart from pounding so hard and fast against your poor ribcage.

To no avail, of course, because, each time you blink, in that swift fragment of blindness, you keep seeing her vitreous eyes staring right back at you, the hole in her chest still fuming.

Pascal rolls – well, more like limps, given one wheel's bigger than the other – towards you and figuratively clicks his non existent tongue, clearly not believing your previous statement. Is his lie detector still functioning or is he simply very good at reading you?

«You can believe me or not, grumpy, but I am fine. Really – you insist, starting to untangle yourself from the thin blanket you use to sleep, but you are seemingly stuck in something far different than a bed sheet. – I just need a shower to wash off the sweat and– ugh! Tell me today's not hair day, please?» More mentally present, you eventually figure out what exactly it is you are stuck in and the sight just makes you not so internally groan and you let yourself fall back against the paper-like pillow.

You haven't cut your hair since you were put into this Makerforsaken tower, all those years ago, so now it got... _long_. Your captors need you alive, for some reason, and they're wise enough to deny you any sharp object you could use against yourself. That being said, you haven't held a knife in ages, let alone scissors. And it's not like you can bite it like you do with your nails.

«Can I wash it tomorrow? I do need to work out and finish that holobook, today, and it'll take me hours to wash it all» you remind your greenish, metallic friend, shutting your eyes with a grunt at his mordacious response.

«Fine – you grumble, putting a hand atop his round, bald head, thinking. You really don't feel like spending all morning over your hair. That dream left a bad taste in your mouth and something tells you it's better not to waste time or find yourself in any stage of undress, today. So you think of something your little nurse droid despises enough to let it go. – Fine, but you'll have to help me brush it. Ah! _See?_ We both don't want it. Tomorrow it is, then.» You sit up once again and quickly braid your hair back into place, before slipping on a pair of linen Capri pants and your threadbare tunic – all in the same, light shade of royal blue – and start your daily stretching.

Living in such an enclosed space, laziness has quickly become your worst enemy, so it's essential to keep up a regular training routine and just... do things.

Granted, the options are very few, but Pascal always helps you come up with some new exercise or game to play to pass the time. Still, as much as you try, some days are just slow and unbearable and you really can't force yourself to dust some non-existent dust and re-read another of those infantile holobooks you can so easily recite backwards.

The only unpredictable things in your life are the games of chess you play against your droid, what with their infinite variables and outcomes, and your dreams. Even though they are often memories of your childhood and nightmares about that day and so very rarely focus on Din and his surroundings.

You start doing the first set of push-ups, Pascal, right by your side, bleeping the rhythm you must keep for the best result. You grunt in effort, the muscles in your arms and shoulders already screaming, salty, tepid sweat dripping down your face and into your eyes. You need to distract yourself. Where were you? Ah, the dreams.

You haven't dreamt of Din in well over a week and, as much as you're used to longer time spans between one appearance and the other – some times, you've gone years without seeing anything of him –, dreaming him two nights in a row, now ten days ago, gave you some hope he might be closer to finding you. But now that hope's quickly fading away and you are forcing yourself to stop dwell too much on it.

You hate feeling so powerless and literally waiting for a man you no longer know to come and save you, but you tried to do it on your own.

Oh, did you try! But, somehow, whoever is keeping you in there, is also keeping an eye on you at all times and, whenever you misbehave, a sickly sweet fog slither inside the circular room and you are out in a minute. When you come to be, what might very well be hours later, for all that matters, they took something away. May it be a cushion or a board game or your food rations, the message is quite clear: don't try anything or you'll get punishment.

You never found out how they do it; the only way in – and out – is through the window and the dumbwaiter is so narrow, that Pascal itself barely fits inside it. What you do know is, you have no way of leaving without help.

«And... that was the... last one» you pant at your fourth set of push-ups, sitting with your back against the cot to try and take in some air. Your arms are aching and you now stink of sweat, but nothing a shower can't deal with. You're keeping yourself in shape and active and that's what matters.

«Hey, P. Will you go and grab me something for breakfast while I take a quick shower?» To this day, it's still a mystery to you how a droid can be grumpy, but Pascal manages to begrudgingly nod, before rolling away, towards the corner of the room that serves as a small kitchen. You watch him with an amused smile, before forcing yourself to get up and, taking a change of clean clothes with you, drag your feet in the tiny 'fresher to wash away the grime and tiredness.

* * *

A few hours later, after forcing something in your stomach and having diligently swept the floor, you sit on your favourite spot, bare feet mindlessly wiggling against the soft carpets you are currently spread on, and turn on the holobook.

You know it like the back of your hands, but they rarely indulge in your requests for new ones, so you have no other choice but to come back to the readings of your childhood.

You set the language on Basic – you usually speak your native dialect with Pascal, but you like to keep working on other languages as well – and flip the virtual, flickering pages until you stumble upon the one you left at some days ago.

Your fussy nurse droid settles by your side and you immediately slide one arm around his round body, pretending to feel warm, soft flesh instead of rigid steel painted in different shades of green – when you were twelve, you could no longer stand his dull greys, so you grabbed what was left of the colour you used for your first ever painting of Din and set to work. It wasn't a perfect job, but you both liked the results and, ever since then, you brush a new hand of green whenever you have some left.

Pascal lets out a disappointed beep when he reads the first few lines of the chapter and makes to move away, but you hug him closer.

«Oh, don't make that face, you grump. It's not like we have many other options to read through.» You roll your eyes, but you don't feel much different about that particular book, really.

You've grown to hate with all your being this story and its helpless protagonist – she reminds you of your situation too much for your liking –, but you always find yourself going back to it. You're not sure why; perhaps because it was you father's favourite or perhaps because it makes you feel less... lonely.

Either way, you are reading it for the umpteenth time. And you tear up, for the umpteenth time, when the trapped princess with magic hair is finally saved.

«When will my red prince come?» you whisper, a bitter lump in your throat. P bleeps sadly and presses himself even closer to you.

«At least I have you, uh?» you force a smile, but it doesn't completely reach your eyes.

* * *

«Don't worry, Mando, we'll treat your Crest like a queen and she'll be right here, waiting for you, when you come back.» Ranzar is clearly making fun of him, but his companion just stares him down, stiff and serious and very much on edge. As usual, when he's about to go on a mission, but in this instance even more so, because things will go... _differently_.

He won't have to rely on his blasters, for once. And what is he without his combat skills and violence?

«For your own good, I hope it will.» The young Mandalorian step off of his ship and turns towards Malk, perched on the closing hatch with a smug look on his chiselled face.

«Remember the plan, Mando, and don't screw up.»

«I should say the same to you» the other bites back, but his friend is no longer in sight.

Mando takes a step back while the silver and orange gunship departs from the ground, leaving him behind. He wholly hated the idea of leaving the Crest in Qin's hands and refused, at first, but that ship's a ghost to any radar, and the gang needs it to approach the guards' post as much as possible, while he takes the walk through the forest and towards the back of the Tower, where the alarm is malfunctioning and only a couple of soldiers patrols it.

An easy job, was it not for the tall, electrified fence surrounding the whole area. And then... the climbing. The tower is 100 feet and made of slippery steel; a suicide mission, really. But none of this is what really worries him.

No, it's what comes after the fence, the guards and the impossible ascent. _It's the girl in the tower._

Mando sighs and starts marching towards his target.


	4. The Trail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: fem!reader, canon typical violence, mentions of non-descriptive under age sex, blood, war and death, child abuse, torture, angst, fluff, pining

_“My prince!” called Rapunzel when she saw him. The two of them hugged tight. Two tears of joy fell into the eyes of the prince. All at once-_ Something’s wrong.

Lifting your glistening gaze from the holopage, you frown in confusion and turn towards the narrow window at your right. You’re not quite sure what distracted you from the reading, but you can’t seem to focus back on it. You hold your breath and strain your ears to listen closely. And there it is again, that faint scraping.

At first, you blame it on the fable you’ve been reading for the past hour – you’re tired and easily impressionable and, with the tower being nearly soundproof, very rarely any sort of sound manages to sip in at all – but then your little droid turns his round head towards the indistinct sound as well, chirping in distress.

«Do your hear that too, P?» you wonder out loud, putting down the pad to get up and take a tentative step towards your only, if merely figurative, connection with the outside world. The transparisteel of the window works as a mirror, so you can’t really see anything besides your slightly scared expression, but you’d swear you can make out some sort of a… silhouette just on the other side.

Something is seemingly casting a shadow and your heart starts to pound so violently, you can feel it vibrating in your teeth. Something is out there, just the panel of transparisteel dividing you. But that’s not possible! You’ve only seen the Tower once, a confused glimpse stolen as you and Jamal left the hovercraft, and, where you don’t remember much about the structure you’ve been trapped in for years, you know it’s tall.

Perhaps a winged animal? A hawk? But, if that’s the case, wouldn’t you have already noticed it before?

«What do you think, Pascal?» you mutter, icy shock waves of adrenaline filling your veins and making your limbs shake in a fight-or-flight mode. You stall, unsure of your next move.

A part of you – a very big part of you – just wants to start pounding your fists against the glass until you break your skin to let whatever is outside know of your presence; know that you’re trapped in here. But what if you scare it off and it’ll never come back? What if… what if they’re currently spying on you and the fog fills up the room?

You don’t want to lose the grasp over your own consciousness just to wake up to find something missing. You don’t want to wake up and discover they took Pascal away from you. He’s your confidant, your only friend; the last piece of your past you have left. So you’ll behave, like you did for the past decade.

But then the shadow disappears, replaced by a red pulsing light. You can barely see it, tiny and faint as it is: you notice it simply because it’s at the exact same height as your left pupil and it’s currently reflecting right in your eye, making you look like one of those killers you once saw a jump-scare holomovie of with your father. The beeping light quickens its pace, now a frantic flashing. You share a concerned look with your nurse droid.

«What the-?» Using the small windowsill as leverage, you all but press your face against the reflecting surface and squint your eyes in hope of making out what that thing is. And that’s when the pulsing stops and the whistle starts. You feel it in your bones, more than hearing it, but something inside you screams to run.

You don’t think twice – after that day, you always follow your guts – and, taken Pascal securely in your arms, you jump away as quickly as your still sore muscles will allow you. The explosion is deafening and sucks all the air from the room. You hit the floor with a mute scream, debris and sharp shards of transparisteel raining all over you.

-

You mutter a curse and try to scramble back on your feet, but you got tangled in your own, long braid and strike the ground once again. Pascal, who rolled away during the ungraceful fall, is right back at your side and uses his pliers to help you free yourself, before pushing frantically against your calves to force you to get up.

You can’t hear a thing, the echo of the detonation still ringing in your ears. Or is that your heart? Either way, it hurts and disorients and panic is growing, fast, in your chest.

The thundering commotion and the flakes of plaster now covering the circular room – and your shaking body – trigger something in your mind and you land on your knees with a silent whimper, head in hands and eyes scrunched shut.

Oh, this is worse, much worse than those nightmares you often have. You can’t wake up from this; you can’t tell the false from the real, not with the dust scraping your throat and the remains of the window caught in your clothes and hair. It’s happening again.

The terror, the screams, the explosions.

Those monstrous droids shooting mercilessly at any living form crossing their path.

The chaos flooding the city, then breaching through the gates of the palace.

The soldiers trying to hold them off, while your mother entrusts you to her loyal advisor, Jamal.

That day, the two of you left the throne room through a hidden passage mere seconds before the soulless machines barged in. You looked behind one last time and were met with the dead stare of your mother, lying before her throne with a hole in her chest. It was still fuming. You screamed and sobbed so much, that you couldn’t talk for a week, afterwards.

And now it’s happening all over again and you’re frozen on the spot and white dots are invading your line of sight and the noise is too much too much too You need to move! Pascal, desperately yanking the linen of your Capri pants.

«I can't» you weep, not yet realizing your hearing is gradually coming back.

_Someone_ _is coming!_ The little droid is by now screeching, before he’s pinching you, harshly. The shock of the pain is enough to pull you back to the present. Massaging the bruise blooming on your calf, you steal a glance to the crater that was once the window.

In any other occasion, you would have gaped at the sight of the blue sky that was for so long stolen from you – even though you can’t see it clearly due to the tears in your eyes and the dust still lingering in the room – but a tall figure is lifting themself through the destruction and you have barely the time to jump clumsily on your feet and duck inside the refresher.

Only when you’re pressed against the wall of the shower, Pascal hugged to your chest, you notice the trail of blood you left behind from a cut under your left foot.

* * *

Mando curses under his breath, the detonation more violent than intended.

He didn’t mean to use the grenade, but he was growing impatient.

Despite his gang taking care of the guards squadron a hundred feet below, blaster shots frequently grazed at his blood-red armour and they didn’t have much time left, before reinforcements were sent to take them down.

He had to be quick, but the transparisteel was seemingly indestructible. Never one to ponder on things, he set the timer of the bomb and left it to it to open a passage. But the charge has clearly been too much and he is now easing himself in a room littered in chaos and debris. And no target in sight.

« _Shab_.» The young man gives a quick look around and relaxes when he doesn’t see any dead body on the ground. So she wasn’t hit by the explosion, _good_.

He doesn’t really feel like losing such a rich reward because of a stupid mistake on his count. Moreover, the gang would never let him hear the end of it, if he’s to screw things up.

Taking a step forward, the annoyed mercenary swears once again when his hidden gaze lands on traces of blood leading to a small sliding door. By the look of it, the bleeding is coming from one of her feet. “Well, that’s just all too easy, for me.”

Remembering the plan, he slightly sunks his shoulders – even though not much can be done to his imposing figure and menacing cuirass – and leaves the blaster in his holster, then he’s silently following the red trail and lifts an arm towards the door.

The last thing he’s expecting is for it to open on its own, something hitting him, hard, on one side of the helmet.


	5. The Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: fem!reader, canon typical violence, mentions of non-descriptive under age sex, blood, war and death, child abuse, torture, angst, fluff, pining

The intruder scrambles away with an exclamation of surprise, more than pain, before the heel of one of his boots catches in your holobook – or what is left of it – sent flying across the room during the explosion, and he crashes on the cluttered ground with a loud clatter. He swears and grumbles and, holding the comb for dear life, you immediately take a step back on your good leg, frantically looking around for… what, exactly? You are in a tower. With a stranger. And nowhere to go. Your only weapon, an harmless hairbrush that clearly annoyed him, more than anything.

With a groan and slowly shaking what you presume is a helmet and not his actual head, the man in armour makes to get on his knees, but something hits him right behind his neck and he’s down once again, “face” first. And, this time, he doesn’t move. You, on the other hand, flinch with a loud gasp and drop the hairbrush, looking down at the droid currently standing at his back with an incredulous expression.

«PASCAL!» you all but shout, limping towards him – carefully keeping your distance from the stranger at your feet – to snatch the piece of beam the tiny droid just used to knock him unconscious. P bleeps furiously, pointing at the helmeted man with such urgency, you fear he might break some circuits in his pincers.

«No, we are not throwing him out» you firmly refuse, massaging your throbbing temples with a broken sigh, before carefully easing yourself to the dusty floor, eyes trained to the lifeless form before you. Then, you mechanically try to sit cross-legged as you usually do, and you nearly scream from the fire scalding the open gash on your left foot. 

The wound is pulsing with pain, but, at least, it’s no longer bleeding. Still, you’ll need to find something to close the cut with, if you don’t want to risk an infection. One thing at a time, though. 

First, you need to find out who this stranger is and why there’s still no sickeningly sweet fog surrounding you.

«But, yeah, you’re right. – You eventually give in, mindlessly using one end of the incriminated girder to keep your little droid from going and pry all over the knocked out man. – We won’t wait around for him to wake up. Help me find something to tie him up with.»

–

He’s heavy. Heavier than his willowy figure lets out. 

After a brief discussion with Pascal – and after seeing how far down the ground actually is – you both agreed on waiting for him to regain consciousness and ask for his help. The armoured man is, to put it simply, your only way to leave what remains of this room without snapping your neck in half. You doubt he went through all the trouble without a plan to leave.

«I’m handling this situation just fine, uh? – you huff, out of breath, the armoured stranger half splayed against you. Pascal, waiting next to the chair miraculously survived to the explosion, doesn’t say anything and keeps on tearing up one of your tunics to turn it into a (sort of) rope. The droid’s known you long enough to know it’s best to just let you ramble, in situations of extreme stress. – I mean, a guy in a helmet just leveled half the tower, I’m seeing the sky for the first time in decades and it feels like my foot is ringed in flames, but look at me. Still got it, still can handle things like a future monarch. Years of reclusion spent away from other living beings didn’t change a thing. I’m good, I can do this. I can do this- don’t stare at me like that, P» you breathe out, sweaty for the excertion and eyes tearing up for the incredible pain currently licking the sole of your foot. 

You’ve been imprisoned in the tower for most of your life, now, and, careful as they’ve always been to deny you anything that you could use to hurt yourself, you forgot how physical torment felt like. 

Crying is not appropriate behaviour of a princess. Thethundering, commanding voice of your mother shakes your memory and you gulp down the next sob, doubling the effort of carrying the man.

When the unconscious stranger is all seated on the chair – with a few muttered swears on your part because his slumped form just won’t stay up against the backrest and keeps bending forward, nearly toppling down each time you move away – you start enclosing his lean bust to it, leaving the knot to your droid. Hopefully, the jury-rigged cord will last long enough for you to strike some sort of a deal with him. You pull at the knot to try it, but it seems it’ll hold up, so, satisfied, you take a few, painful, steps back and, finally, give a proper look at your unexpected intruder.

He’s not as tall as he seemed while you were rushing inside the ’fresher to hide away, but he’s still an imposing slender figure, with distinctly toned muscles under the numerous layers of clothes. He’s clearly a soldier of some sort and the helmet shape does tease your memory, but you can’t quite place it. You’ll stick with the soldier theory, for now. Of which faction, though? And is the war still ongoing? You have no way to know; your world crystallized almost two decades ago, when those Separatist battle droids slaughtered your people and Jamal put you in there, and it’s not like your captors bothered of telling you who won the war.

The red of his armour – what little he’s wearing, anyway – honestly puts you off, because you don’t remember those colours being sported by any of the armies. You keep studying him, momentarily lost in a trance. 

Blood red helmet, gauntlets and pauldrons, tight pants and undershirt with long sleeves of a similar, rusty shade, and a really fitting hide vest of some sort hugging his chest, the colour a light, dusty grey much like his leather gloves. He’s slightly hunched over, but you can still make out the very equippedbelt at his narrow waist and the mere sight makes you shiver and recoil, despite him being the one currently consciousless and tied to a kriffing chair. 

When your gaze trails down, you eventually notice a second munition belt, this one attached to his right calf, just above the boot, and the thigh holster on the same leg. Pascal has clearly seen it too, because he urgently points at it, bleeping furiously. You quickly grab the weapon and hide it under your cot. Better safe than sorry.

«What now? – you wonder out loud, starting to fidget with the hem of your light blue tunic. Then, a thought hits you. – Oh, Maker, what if I forget Basic? What if he doesn’t even speak it?»

You haven’t used Basic ever since that fateful day, curling in the comfort of your dialect instead and limiting yourself to simply reading the common tongue of the galaxy. Now, you wish you’d made a different choice about which language was best keeping trained and fluent. But no sense thinking too much of it, now.

Keeping your wounded foot slightly lifted from the ground, you cross your arms under your breasts and wait, Pascal limping at your side like a loyal sentinel.

–

«He should have already woken up by now. – You know no longer than ten minutes have passed since he blown up the window, but you’re starting to worry anyway. Is he breathing? Why didn’t you make sure if he’s even still alive under there? Should you check? – How hard did you hit his head, P? Do you reckon we should see if he has a contusion-?» you then hesitantly muse, lifting your hands towards the blood red headpiece hiding his face.

«Don’t touch my helmet!» the man suddenly barks out and you nearly fall on the floor with a pitiful squeal of frightened surprise. For how long has he been conscious and observing you from behind the black lenses of his T visor? Frantically scrambling back, a silent whimper of pain escapes your mouth when you press your wounded foot too harshly on the ground and the cut starts bleeding once again. Your heart is currently beating a tribal rhythm in your throat, so frantic and loud you can actually feel it in your fingertips, but you try to at least regain an imperturbable façade.

He scared you to death, but, if nothing else, you now have the certainty he speaks Basic. And flawlessly so.

«Where is my blaster?» he then snaps after a string of rather colourful curses when he finally noticed the ropes forcing him to the chair.

«Hidden» you blurt out, perhaps all too quickly. Yeah, who’s handling it ohsowell, now?

He stops struggling against the restraints and silently studies you. Well, as far as you can tell. But he must be staring at you, behind that visor of his, because the weight of his hidden gaze is setting your nerves on fire and you hug yourself, on edge. Not being able to read his eyes is unsettling you.

«Mh mh – the faceless man ruminates, almost in a derisive manner, slowly turning his helmet around, seemingly searching the devastated room. – It’s under that cot, isn’t it?» he eventually guesses, tilting his head towards your dusty bed. 

You hope he doesn’t notice you jump, panic and embarrassment flooding your already-buzzing-with-adrenaline veins. You have to remind yourself that he is the one tied; that you still have the upper hand and are the one conducing this conversation.

«I- I am the one asking the questions, here. N-not you.» Nice start.

«Clearly – he huffs in his breathy, slightly hoarse and modulated voice, while trying to sit more upright. He notices you forgot to tether his legs as well, but he surely won’t be the one making you aware of your mistake. For now, though, he’ll play along and go with Ran’s plan. – Listen, can’t we talk when we’re out of here?»

«No, we’re- what?» you all but choke out, furrowing your brow, your heart losing a beat. Maybe more than one. 

Did he really say what you think he said? He’s here to free you? Then again, why else would he be here for?

«I’m here to rescue you – he indeed states, matter-of-factly. – Now, cut those ropes, so we can leave.» But you don’t make a move and just stare at him with impossibly wide eyes, your face now the colour of the dust covering nearly the whole place – and your body, too.

«Why would you want to rescue me? And how do you even know about me?»

«That’s what my client is paying me for. Ask them.»

Client? Pascal bleeps in distrust and you look down at him with the same confusion, so you miss the way the masked stranger tenses up when he finally notices the tiny, green droid pressed against your legs like some sort of pet. Or guardian.

«Who sent you? Who wants to save me?»

«I don’t know» he grits out, attention still focused on the machine at your feet, heart racing and breath picking up. Now it takes him everything not to break free, take his blaster and just end that disgusting thing.

«You don’t know? – you echo, completely unaware of his internal turmoil. – You are paid to take me away, and you don’t even know who is paying you?»

«That’s what I’m telling you.»

«I don’t believe it.» You stubbornly shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek when a particularly violent stab courses through your wounded foot.

«Listen, sweetheart, we don’t have time for this – the man bursts out, clearly starting to lose his patience. – Soon, backup will be on us, so you can either cut the crap and free me or you can wait for them to arrive. And it doesn’t really look like they are your friends. So, what’s it gonna be?»

«I- I need to think.»

«No, you don’t. Cut these ropes and let’s get the kark out of here, before they arrive.»

«How do I know you are any better, mh? You blow up half of the tower, you are armed and covered in armour and I don’t even know your name! How do I know you’re not going to sell me to a much bad fate?»

«Because I already said I’m going to sell you, but to someone that wants to save you.»

«Who? Why?»

«Not again. Hey!Keep that thing away!» he shouts, his modulated and almost artificial tone reverberates against the remains of the circular walls, grating at your ears. You flinch away with a gasp that it’s more a suffocated whimper, the loud, sudden noise triggering you.

«Then watch your tone – you reply, somehow resisting the urge of covering your head with your arms, Pascal limping away from his kicking legs with an outraged squeal. – He doesn’t like when people shout at me.»

«Apologies – he says, sarcasm evident, but voice an octave lower. – Okay, listen. I am a hireling. No questions asked, that’s my policy. So I really have no idea who my current patron is, okay? But they are paying good credits to have you, so you must be important, to them. Doubt they’re going through all the trouble just to kill you. Agreed on that?»

You stare at his T visor, trying to sense any kind of lie or deception, but, without direct eye contact, it’s basically useless. You stop straining to read him before tiring yourself for nothing. 

You’ll have to trust him without assurance, because you refuse to even take into consideration your other alternative. You won’t use it against the first living being you met after almost twenty years of reclusion.

«Fine – you mutter, ignoring the beeps of protest of your incredulous nurse droid. – I’ll come with you.»

«Finally.»

«Wait – you stop him, suddenly thinking of something. You don’t know where he’s taking you nor what’s going to be your fate once you’re there, so why not try your luck with a request? Because, as much as you’re grateful to that mysterious client of his for the unhoped-for rescue, you certainly won’t wait around until your freedom is taken once again from you. No, no more cages. If the mercenary agrees, and he has to agree, you’ll earn you and Pascal some more time to run. – I wasn’t finished.»

«What, now.»

You fidget with the tip of your long braid for a few moments, trying to think of something that’ll take you some time and multiple stops to reach; more occasions for you to escape. 

Then, a memory. Foggy, distant, barely there. Your father, lying in bed with you during a stormy night when a blackout swallowed the world, talking animatedly of a place of lights and happiness, of dances and carefreeness. The myth of a peaceful city that has been long lost in the whirls of time, progress and wars. Hopefully, the increasingly annoyed man before you never heard of such a thing.

«Before you take me to whoever wants to save me, I want to see Luminarie.»

«You’ll come with me either way» he scoffs, tilting his head mockingly to one side.

«I can leave this tower without you, now that there’s a breach. A pretty big one» you bluff, hoping he won’t see the huge lie etched on your face. He does, of course.

«How exactly do you think you’ll descend a hundred feet on your own?»

«I… don’t worry about that» you blurt out, silently shushing Pascal when he gives you that look.

«Okay. – The mercenary surprisingly plays along with a very eloquent sigh. – Let’s say I agree to that. What is Luminarie and where do you find it?»

You’d let out a sigh of relief, if you didn’t feel his intent gaze on you, searching you.

«It’s a festival. – You keep it vague. – There are stories about it. And… I don’t know.»

«You don’t know what?»

«Where Luminarie, is.» That much is true: the stories never told about the exact location of the city where the fest took place each solstice.

«So you want me to, what, escort you through half the galaxy for this legendary… festivity thing?»

«You already are escorting me, aren’t you? What difference will it make?»

«No, forget it. Be realistic, sweetheart. We’re not in a fairy tale. It’s likely that festival doesn’t even exist!»

Panic replaces the tepid blood in your veins, but you try not to let it show. Pascal, finally catching up on what you’re trying to achieve, presses comfortingly his round body against your legs. You falter slightly at the touch, your left foot no longer sustaining your weight. 

Unfortunately, while trying to regain your lost balance, you squash the wound too hardly on the dusty floor, waking up the flames you were, until now, more or less able to ignore.

«I’ll never know, if I don’t at least try» you insist, hoping he confuses the tears gathering up for the scorching pain for desperation.

«We don’t have time, they’ll be–»

«They’ll be on us – you finish for him, stealing a desperate glance at what was once a window. Through your teary sight, you notice something silver flashing through the darkening sky. – So say yes and I’ll free you – you then nearly beg. – You have my word. I’ll come with you, I’ll do everything you ask me to, I promise. But, please, please help me find Luminarie.»

He doesn’t utter a single sound for a long time, his hidden gaze burning in yours. Then he sags his armoured shoulders, a spent sigh leaving the sharp lip of the blood red helmet.

«Fine.»

«Wait- really?» You can’t believe your ears and fear this is all an hallucination caused by the sharp pain climbing up your leg.

«C'mon, cut the ropes, before I regret this.»

«Thank you. Oh, thank you!» Before attempting what you already know it’s going to be a hurtful step towards him, you pause and drop your gaze to your little nurse droid. He’s already staring at you, expectantly.

«Pascal is coming with us» you affirm, not at all willing to take no for an answer.

«Pascal?» the mercenary repeats, scepticism evident in his altered tone.

«Him.» You lightly nod at your feet and you know P would be puffing his chest out, if he’d only be able to.

«The droid?! You called a droid “Pascal”?»

«So what? He’s a P4 – SC, model L. That’s pretty much his name already.» You try to defend your four-year-old choices in naming nurse droids.

«What did I get myself into.»


End file.
